e, return of Ulysses,
required a certain proof to confirm the evidence of her eyes, and her
long absent husband had to remind her of secrets known only to herself.

Martin, however, as if he understood Bertrande's feeling and divined some
secret mistrust, used the most tender and affectionate phrases, and even
the very pet names which close intimacy had formerly endeared to them.

"My queen," he said, "my beautiful dove, can you not lay aside your
resentment? Is it still so strong that no submission can soften it?
Cannot my repentance find grace in your eyes? My Bertrande, my Bertha,
my Bertranilla, as I used to call you."

She tried to smile, but stopped short, puzzled; the names were the very
same, but the inflexion of voice quite different.

Martin took her hands in his. "What pretty hands! Do you still wear my
ring? Yes, here it is, and with it the sapphire ring I gave you the day
Sanxi was born."

Bertrande did not answer, but she took the child and placed him in his
father's arms.

Martin showered caresses on his son, and spoke of the time when he
carried him as a baby in the garden, lifting him up to the fruit trees,
so that he could reach and try to bite the fruit. He recollected one day
when the poor child got his leg terribly torn by thorns, and convinced
himself, not without emotion, that the scar could still be seen.

Bertrande was touched by this display of affectionate recollections, and
felt vexed at her own coldness. She came up to Martin and laid her hand
in his. He said gently--

"My departure caused you great grief: I now repent what I did. But I was
young, I was proud, and your reproaches were unjust."

"Ah," said she, "you have not forgotten the cause of our quarrel?"

"It was little Rose, our neighbour, whom you said I was making love to,
because you found us together at the spring in the little wood. I
explained that we met only by chance,--besides, she was only a
child,--but you would not listen, and in your anger--"

"Ah! forgive me, Martin, forgive me!" she interrupted, in confusion.

"In your blind anger you took up, I know not what, something which lay
handy, and flung it at me. And here is the mark," he continued, smiling,
"this scar, which is still to be seen."

"Oh, Martin!" Bertrande exclaimed, "can you ever forgive me?"

"As you see," Martin replied, kissing her tenderly.

Much moved, Bertrande swept aside his hair, and looked at the scar
visible on his forehea